Ah, my dad. Ever the pragmatic one. At least he’s functioning. Mom looks like she’ll collapse any minute — either from physical or emotional exhaustion. Probably a combination of the two.
“But, my baby,” she whimpers, sadness and worry coating her words.
“I know, honey. She’s my baby, too. We still need to think of Sunny, and we need to sleep. You can barely stand as it is. There’s nothing we can do tonight, and we need to rest before talking to the doctor tomorrow.”
She nods, squeezing Belle’s hand one last time before taking a step back from the hospital bed and walking to meet Dad at the other side.
“Alis?” Dad asks, looking at me to see if I’ll follow.
“I’m going to stay with Belle tonight. Give my love to Sunny.” I pull my feet into the chair, bending my knees and holding them close to my body.
“Alright. Try and rest. We’ll see you in the morning.” He walks to me and plants a kiss on top of my head.
“See you in the morning.” He turns, sliding his hand into Mom’s, and gently leads her out of the room.
I stand and push the chair closer to the bed, hoping I can recline the chair and still comfortably hold my sister’s hand. Nope. Not happening.
I return the chair to its upright position, curling back into it with my knees once again up against my chest.
I stroke Belle’s hand and lean my head back against the chair.
“I love you,” I whisper. I don’t know if she can hear me. “You won’t be alone, ever. Alex may not be here, but I’ll always be here to help with Sunny. You and me — we’re a team. We’ll figure this out, together.”
I sit next to my sister, silently holding her hand, and eventually fall into a dream-filled sleep in my chair.
“Alis! Look! The purple ones are back!” A seven-year-old Belle looks behind her right before kneeling in the meadow to pick a purple flower. I run until I catch up with her, but instead of kneeling gracefully, I trip over my own feet, tumbling into the tall grass and wildflowers.
Umph. That’s going to leave a grass stain on my overalls. “No, silly, those are blue,” I tell her, touching the petals of my favorite wildflowers.
“I still think they’re more purple than blue,” Belle retorts, spinning the flower between her fingers. I guess she has a point; the one she’s holding is a mixed shade of blue and purple.
“No matter which color they are, they’re still my favorite,” I say, picking a few more to bundle into a bouquet for Grandma. “Mine, too,” Belle says while starting her own bouquet.
Summer in Colorado is my favorite time of year. Belle and I spend a month at our grandma’s house every June — running through the meadow, painting on grandma’s back porch, helping in her garden. I love my parents, but Grandma has always and will always be my favorite person. Well, besides Belle of course. She’s my best friend. She’ll always be my best friend.
We walk back toward Grandma’s house, flowers in hand, and as soon as she sees us from the kitchen window Grandma meets us outside with two vases filled with water.
“Myosotis scorpioidis! They’re lovely, girls. We’ll put one vase in the living room and the other on the breakfast table. How does that sound?” Grandma smiles down at us while we each set a flower bouquet in a readied vase and then carry them into the house.
“Sunny, why don’t you take yours to the living room. Don’t forget to set it near a window so they get enough sunlight.” Belle nods in affirmation and skips to the living room to find the perfect perch for her flowers. I walk with grandma to the breakfast table and set my vase on the doily sitting perfectly centered on the round table for four.
“I thought they were called forget-me-nots, not myoso — what did you call them?” I look up at Grandma with a confused expression.
“Myosotis scorpioidis. That’s the genus name for the flower that grows wild here in Colorado.”
“Myo-so-tis scor-pioi-dis,” I sound out slowly, committing the name to memory. “So why did mommy tell me they are called forget-me-nots? Did she forget the real name?”
Grandma chuckles, “No, dear. They are also called forget-me-nots. Remember when we learned about the northern lights and I told you they are also called the aurora borealis?”
My face lights up at my nickname. “Yeah! Like my name! Alis!”
“That’s right, dear. Just like your name.” Grandma smiles down at me just as Belle enters the kitchen.
“I put my vase right next to the window with the stained glass butterfly!” Belle beams, clearly excited to place her flowers next to the hanging glass artwork we made last summer during our visit.
“I knew you’d find the perfect place,” Grandma smiles at her as she walks toward the oven to pull out a slider filled with chocolate chip cookies. Belle retrieves the milk from the fridge to pour each of us a glass while I gather paper plates and napkins for our cookies. Once our glasses are filled and the serving tray is overflowing with cookies, the three of us sit at the breakfast table for our afternoon snack.
I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t pronounce anything properly with a mouth full of cookie. I like to avoid misbehaving at all costs, so I swallow my cookie before saying, “Belle, did you know these flowers are called myotosis scorpioidis?”
